


believe we are magic

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hogwarts, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Triwizard Tournament, bc did you really write a les mis fic if you don't joke abt enjolras loving france, idk - Freeform, ish, jokes about patria, lots of pining idk this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 19:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: Okay,honestly, Grantaire’s crush is getting kind of out of hand.He still doesn’t evenknow the guy’s name. Courfeyrac has been teasing him mercilessly about that fact, but Courfeyrac has a crush on a Hogwarts student with the blue and silver scarf who hasn’t even so much as spared Courfeyrac a glance. Like, at least Grantaire chose the student fromBeauxbatons.*In which there's a tournament but things run deeper than that, magic isn't just being a wizard, and Grantaire's crush kind of gets in the way of everything.





	believe we are magic

**Author's Note:**

> This is. This is nonsense. Won't even sugarcoat it, I wrote this on a whim and ended up with nearly 10k words that make no sense. But hey! At least I'm writing again.  
> (It started off kind of cracky, and got more serious? Sounds like everything I write.)
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes and likely confusing plot points are my own.

Okay, _honestly_ , Grantaire’s crush is getting kind of out of hand.

 

He still doesn’t even _know the guy’s name_. Courfeyrac has been teasing him mercilessly about that fact, but Courfeyrac has a crush on a Hogwarts student with the blue and silver scarf who hasn’t even so much as spared Courfeyrac a glance. Like, at least Grantaire chose the student from _Beauxbatons_.

 

Courfeyrac tells him not to be so mean to the Hogwarts students all the time, but Grantaire knows he’s biased because of his crush so he doesn’t pay him much mind.

 

_Anyway_ , his crush is getting ridiculous. His Beauxbatons student had barely even walked into the Mess Hall and Grantaire’s head had shot up immediately, eyes already searching and finding him. He must be smiling stupidly, because he’s an _idiot_ with a _dumb crush_ , when Courfeyrac kindly says, “Hey, dipshit, you’re staring again. He’s going to notice.”

 

Courfeyrac is kind of an asshole, but he’s one of Grantaire’s best friends so he’s got no choice but to let it slide.

 

He says as much to Courf, who rolls his eyes and turns back to the conversation he’d been having prior to Grantaire mooning over French boys. Grantaire’s own gaze slides carefully back to the blonde Beauxbatons student. The guy has his friends at his side, all as pretty as him though they _do_ look more approachable. Grantaire supposes it isn’t a bad thing—all the students from Beauxbatons are gorgeous, all put together and classy and considerate. The blonde who has enraptured Grantaire is the only one who stands out from them; he lacks the sense of composure the rest of the lot have, replaced instead by an essence of authority. He captivates rooms when he walks in, and it’s not just for his charming good looks. He’s surrounded by the air of leadership, the promise of change.

 

Grantaire watches silently as the blonde grins wolfishly at his friends before breaking away, waltzing over to the Goblet and dropping in his name. His friends cheer and cajole him as he walks back, still smiling from ear to ear.

 

Grantaire sighs dramatically.

 

The poor pretty bastard is most likely going to get himself killed in this competition.

 

Beside him, Courfeyrac lets out his own prolonged sigh. From across the way his own Hogwarts student has taken off the black robe and rolled up the sleeves of his button up. Courfeyrac looks like he’s either seen the face of god or been punched in the dick.

 

“You’re not allowed to make fun of me anymore,” retorts Grantaire.

 

Courfeyrac flips him off.

 

Whatever. He has a crush on a _Hogwarts student_.

 

There’s a beat of silence before Joly pipes up. He’s the perfect picture of nonchalance, sitting in his boyfriend’s lap and fiddling with the sleeves of Bossuet’s uniform. He’s got a lazy smile on his face, but his eyes twinkle with mischief as he says, “Oi, Bos, didn’t Chetta ask us to meet her in the library before dinner? She was going to teach us some charms she’s been learning over there in France.”

 

Grantaire’s head whips around instantly.

 

Bossuet and Joly just grin at him cheerfully.

 

“You bastards,” he hisses.

 

Bossuet reaches forward and pats Grantaire’s knee.

 

“Does she know him?” he asks desperately.

 

Joly keeps on smiling his mischievous little grin.

 

At least Courfeyrac is glaring at them alongside Grantaire. He’s glad someone’s on his side. Courfeyrac chides, “You two are being cruel. Why would you choose _him_ to help? Next time can’t you get close to _my_ guy?”

 

And in that instant Grantaire takes back every nice thing he’s ever said about Courfeyrac.

 

“You are _all_ insufferable,” he moans, throwing his head dramatically into his hands. He makes a series of muffled sounds that none of his friends can quite interpret.

 

“Come again?” asks Joly lightly.

 

“He’s so pretty it just isn’t fair!” Grantaire whines, and then he resolves to never speak again when all his so-called friends laugh at his face and just ruffle his curls.

 

* * *

 

 

The blonde from Beauxbatons gets selected as the champion for his school.

 

His name is Enjolras, and Grantaire’s never believed in love at first sight until now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire and Enjolras share many classes, since they’re in the same year and share a surprisingly similar course load. Grantaire hasn’t quite decided whether it’s a blessing or a curse yet. Enjolras always has one friends from Beauxbatons with him in every class he has, usually a short girl with blonde hair or the redhead who wears flowers like they’re going out of style.

 

Grantaire spends all of class trying to work up the nerve to talk to him, and always ends up swallowing his words when they’re dismissed.

 

Enjolras is endlessly charming, ridiculously sweet around his friends and always caught smiling at other students. He more often than not gets caught up in helping the younger students when they’re struggling, and he’s almost always looking about every room he’s in with silent regard.

 

It doesn’t come as a surprise then, after Grantaire notices these things, that Enjolras was selected as champion for his school.

 

For all that Enjolras is endlessly kind and sweet, Grantaire quickly learns that he’s also fiercely passionate. Born in a Muggle household, he’s got strong beliefs and plans to change not only the wizarding world but the surrounding Muggle world as well. Grantaire was right—change is written into Enjolras’s very core.

 

“You’ll never woo him,” says Courfeyrac seriously, as he plucks grapes off a vine and pops them into his mouth. “Not so long as he’s in love with France.”

 

Joly and Bossuet snicker. Grantaire sighs.

 

“O fierce and humble rebellion, thy mistress is patria,” he says drily. He resolves right then and there to speak to Enjolras before the first task if it kills him.

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire is studying in the school’s small library when a student from Hogwarts slinks into the chair in front of him and frowns indignantly. Grantaire furrows his brow—the student wears no colors to indicate his Hogwarts house, just his black robes and a crisp white shirt.The student carelessly drops a book on top of Grantaire’s notes and simply raises a poised eyebrow when Grantaire splutters at him.

 

“This book isn’t good for much, but it will help that champion of yours succeed if he’s smart,” the student murmurs. Grantaire’s jaw snaps shut. The student pauses briefly, regarding Grantaire, grey eyes cool and unrepentant. He lifts his chin. “Even if he isn’t smart enough to figure it out, perhaps it will finally give you a chance to speak with him and end the rest of our sufferings.”

 

Grantaire scoffs. “Who are you? And why do _you_ care so much about the Beauxbatons champion?”  


The student smirks, barely an upturned corner of his lips, practiced ease. “I don’t,” he says, shrugging slightly. “It’s not within my interests to reveal any ulterior motives, regardless of whether I have them or not.”

 

He stands up after that, and Grantaire’s frantic to ask, “Why are you telling _me_?” As the guy turns away, Grantaire desperately reaches out to grab his wrist and hold him in place. He’s shocked to find that the skin under his fingertips is ice cold.

 

In an instant, the student bares his teeth and wretches his hand away from Grantaire’s touch. His face, snarling and furious, almost suddenly softens to something indescribably. “Everyone deserves a fair chance,” he says finally, then he’s gone before Grantaire can even think of saying another word.

 

“Oo-kay,” Grantaire drawls, like it’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to him all week.

 

Though, he considers, he _is_ a wizard, and it really _isn’t_ the weirdest thing that’s happened to him all week.

 

* * *

 

 

He catches sight of the mysterious Hogwarts student again, an hour later in his Muggle Studies class. Enjolras has gone off on another rant about how cruel wizards are by keeping their knowledge of their world a secret from Muggles, and his redheaded friend is looking at him with amused eyes—and the Hogwarts student is staring at the redhead like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

 

Grantaire scribbles out a note that reads, _no ulterior motives my ass_ , and chucks it at his head.

 

The guy scowls and tosses the paper back after a minute, a note depicting a half-decent picture of Grantaire getting set on fire during what seems to be the first task. It’s signed with only an ‘M’ at the bottom of the paper.

 

Grantaire grins smugly. It seems he’s made a new friend.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ve made a new friend,” he announces loudly after he’s retreated back to the boat and made his way into the common area. He’s grinning wickedly at Courfeyrac, who blinks owlishly back at him. “He’s kind of secretive, and really weird. But maybe he’s friends with your crush from that one house. Raven Crow?”

 

“Ravenclaw,” Joly pipes up helpfully. “They say that’s where I’d most likely be Sorted if I’d have attended Hogwarts instead!”

 

Courfeyrac is frowning at Grantaire, apparently oblivious to anything Joly had said. “My crush is called Combeferre, and he couldn’t care less about me if he tried,” whines Courfeyrac. Grantaire plops down onto the sofa next to him and only sighs once when Courfeyrac drapes himself rather ungracefully across Grantaire’s torso. “He’s a Halfblood and he’s writing a _thesis_ about combining Muggle medicine with wizard healing and how it would benefit the world. He’s smart and funny and impressive and all I can do is fly a broom half decent.”

 

Grantaire frowns. “Hey, don’t say that. _I_ can fly a broom half decent. You’re a Keeper for a reason.”

 

Courfeyrac smacks him with a pillow.

 

Bossuet is unperturbed by both of their behaviors, unfortunately accustomed to it by now. “You made friends with a Hogwarts student? What’s their name? Do you know their house?”

 

Grantaire makes a face. “Um, his name starts with an M? And I have no idea, like I said he’s super secretive. But he fancies the redhead whose lags around Enjolras all the time.”

 

“I think Enjolras lags behind _them_ if we’re being entirely honest,” Bossuet says drily. “Musichetta said their name is Jehan, gave us their proper pronouns to use and everything. We’ve not met them yet, but Chetta says they’ve got quite a following—and that Enjolras practically worships the ground they work on.”

 

“So she _does_ know him!” cries Grantaire, indignant. He’s not above actually pouting. “You’ve been holding out on me. Can she introduce me?”

 

Courfeyrac snickers and mutters something into the fabric of Grantaire’s sweater.

 

“No, I’m serious, I actually need an introduction,” Grantaire continues, nudging Courfeyrac. “I’ve got valuable information about the tournament that I’ve got to pass along to him. That’s how I made my new friend M.”

 

Courfeyrac perks up. “Valuable information?”

 

Now that he’s got the attention of all his friends, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the book M had given him. They’re lucky; no one else is in their common area, most of them out socializing or playing on the Quidditch pitch or getting ready for dinner in the Mess Hall. Bossuet snatches the book out of Grantaire’s hands and flips through it curiously.

 

“This is a book about werewolves,” states Bossuet, as though Grantaire hasn’t already looked through the book.

 

“Duh,” says Grantaire.

 

Joly frowns disdainfully. “I’ve never even heard of this book, it can’t be that good. It looks old, too, probably outdated; we’ve probably learned so much more about them and their culture in the past few years—”

 

He stops talking abruptly. There’s a beat of hesitation, then, “Grantaire. Did you hand us an outdated book about werewolves because it’s a _clue_?”

 

Bossuet yelps loudly—his finger is bleeding a bit from where he’d opened too roughly to a page on werewolf bites. His eyes are wide as he stares at the blood. “Oh, bollocks,” whines Bossuet. Joly sighs to himself and pulls out his wand.

 

“My new Hogwarts friend says it’s a clue,” replies Grantaire with a shrug. Courfeyrac, who has taken the book away from Bossuet after his mishandling and subsequent injury, makes a noise at the back of his throat. He’s holding it gently, fingertips brushing the spine as he keeps it calm, and he looks more intrigued than anything else.

 

“This is, this _isn’t_ an outdated book on werewolves,” he murmurs. The book has calmed down now, relaxed in Courfeyrac’s touch, though there’s still a bit of a growl coming from the spine. “This book is old, yes, but it practically doesn’t exist anymore. From when it was published, it was the most controversial book of it’s time. It’s the first book to breach the concept that werewolves are actually people too, not just a beast. It teaches the specifics of transformation, different degrees of werewolf bites, the things that are toxic but also the things that can help—it’s the first book that included a potion to help ease the pain. The potion is archaic, yes, and we’ve come a long way since then. But it tries to _help_ werewolves, especially newly turned, instead of teaching people how to kill them.”

 

Courfeyrac has gone slightly pale. Grantaire can feel him shivering slightly.

 

Under the fabric of Courfeyrac’s thin sweater, the torn and scarred skin of his shoulder burns warmer than usual.

 

Grantaire holds Courfeyrac a bit tighter.

 

Everyone stares at Courfeyrac with concern in their eyes, and after a beat Courfeyrac realizes they’re all still looking at him and flushes with embarrassment. “Guys,” he mutters, burying his face into Grantaire’s stomach. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

 

Joly looks like he’s trying not to cry, which is how he usually looks whenever Courfeyrac talks about his past.

 

“My _point_ ,” continues Courfeyrac rapidly, most likely after noticing Joly’s sad, sad eyes, as he waves the book. It growls loudly and makes an affronted noise, as though it doesn’t like being tossed about, and immediately Courfeyrac cradles the book once more. “My point is that these books are near impossible to come by since the majority of them were destroyed after it’s publication. So if this is a clue, it’s a very specific clue.”

 

“Fighting werewolves?” Bossuet says lowly.

 

Bossuet isn’t an angry person. He’s kind and patient, and endlessly happy even with all his misfortune. But there’s a dark look on his face, a radiating anger that only flares up in the rarest of moments. He’s looking steadfastly at the wall, focused and furious and protective.

 

“Bos,” Courfeyrac murmurs.

 

“It’s barbaric!” snaps Bossuet.

 

“I don’t think it’s about fighting werewolves,” Grantaire interrupts. He takes the book from Courfeyrac’s hands, closing it softly and placing it in his lap. “This is a specific book. A book about helping. A book about humanizing a creature that so many people fear. I think the task has something to do with _helping_ them.”

 

“Alright, so we’ve got it partially figured out,” says Courfeyrac. “So what, we just leave the rest up to Enjolras to figure out?”

 

“We’re clever,” responds Grantaire. “If he needs help, we’ll tell him where to find us. Only problem now is how to give the book to him.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joly teases, “but maybe going up to him and introducing yourself would be a good place to start. That’s usually how it works. Worked great for me and Bossuet, you know, and every other person in this world.”

 

Grantaire flips him off.

 

“Fine,” mutters Grantaire. “I’ll _talk_ to the stupid pretty boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out, Courfeyrac’s a braver man than Grantaire.

 

He recounts the tale later, how he found Combeferre wandering down the halls with his nose in a Muggle medicine book and blurted out that they had a hunch about the first task.

 

(“ _Werewolves_!” shouted Courfeyrac, and he blanched when Combeferre looked up at him in surprise.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“That’s the task. Well. I mean, well, we’re pretty sure it’s werewolves. We don’t know for certain what exactly the champions…have to do…”

 

Combeferre had blinked at him once, before a grin had spread across his face. “I’d love to help you figure it out. If you need help, that is. Keep me updated.”)

 

Courfeyrac cries onto Joly’s shoulder, “Combeferre wants to _help us_. I’m in love!”

 

* * *

 

 

So he’s really got no other choice now but to find a way to talk to Enjolras.

 

They don’t have much time left before the first task. Enjolras and the other champions have been excused from classes to spend the coming days preparing as best they can. Which means Grantaire doesn’t get to see him in classes, which means he has to find a more creative way to seek out Enjolras, which means he actually has to pull his head out of his ass and get over his stupid crush long enough to help Enjolras survive the task.

 

He finds out from Joly and Bossuet that Enjolras spends the hour after lunch studying at the top of the Astronomy tower. It’s supposed to be their Herbology hour, but Grantaire doesn’t really care for that class much so he doesn’t feel badly about skipping it. Besides, Joly promises to take extra notes for him and Joly’s ‘extra’ always means Grantaire’s going to end up with notes covered in plant doodles.

 

So Grantaire actually feels pretty good about skipping class, right up until the moment he’s at the bottom of the stairwell that leads directly up to the top of Hogwarts’ Astronomy tower.

 

Grantaire clutches the book to his chest and swears repeatedly under his breath.

 

“I’m a coward and I don’t deserve good things like talking to the people selected as champions from other schools,” Grantaire tells the bust at the base of the stairs.

 

“You’re talking to statues, mate, perhaps that’s your problem,” replies the bust drily. Grantaire glares at it halfheartedly, but the statue’s got a point. Grantaire talks to enchanted busts at the bottom of long and winding staircases that lead to pretty boys; up at the top is the _champion_ of Beauxbatons, the best of the best. Grantaire sighs.

 

“Whatever, he probably doesn’t even want to see me anyway,” Grantaire mutters.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” says a voice from behind him.

 

Grantaire _whirls_ around in horror. He’s greeted by none other than Enjolras who stands behind him at the base of the stairs with a pleasantly surprised look on his face. He’s carrying books in his arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and acting as though it comes as no surprise to him that Grantaire wanders around schools talking to statues.

 

Seeing as it’s most likely one of the first things Enjolras has ever heard him say, Grantaire supposes that it probably _doesn’t_ come as a surprise.

 

“Hi,” Grantaire blurts out, and immediately he flushes crimson.

 

Enjolras smiles at him, seemingly charmed. Grantaire just continues gaping at him. “Funny seeing you here, ‘stead of in class. Skipping Herbology, are we?”

 

Grantaire swallows thickly; his face is on fire since he can’t stop blushing, but Enjolras just seems intrigued by it. “I’m top of the class, I can miss a class or two,” lies Grantaire, before he can stop himself. Enjolras grins wickedly, like he _knows_.

 

“I’m sure you are,” Enjolras replies easily. Grantaire’s struck by the sense that everything Enjolras does is done easily. “You’re Grantaire, right?”

 

Grantaire can’t help but double-take, shocked at the notion that someone like Enjolras would ever even know his name. “Uh, yeah. And you’re Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras even has the nerve to look surprised himself. “How do you know my name?” he asks, awestruck, like it’s the most magical thing in the world that Grantaire could know his name, as if every person staying at this school doesn’t know it.

 

He’s kind of oblivious. Grantaire’s hopelessly charmed.

 

“Um, you’re the champion of Beauxbatons.” _And you’re the hottest guy I’ve literally ever seen._ “We share a lot of classes.” _I pay attention to practically none of them, you’re very distracting_. “Everyone knows _your_ name. How do you know mine?”

 

Enjolras actually _blushes_. It’s the first time Grantaire’s seen him as anything less than composed, and he’s not quite sure how to handle it. “We share a lot of classes,” Enjolras says after a beat.

 

Grantaire grins back at him.

 

"Why are you skipping?" Enjolras asks, at the same time Grantaire blurts out, "So there's this thing."

 

"Go ahead," Enjolras prompts him gently.

 

Grantaire blanches.

 

He wishes he could stall for more time instead. He wishes he could sink into the floor. "There's this thing," he starts, then stops suddenly. His eyes dart around the hall, as deserted as it is. There's faint footsteps and fading giggles from somewhere farther down the hall, and for something this sensitive Grantaire doesn't trust the halls. "But. Not here."

 

There's an indescribable look on Enjolras's face. His eyes are soft, maybe even hopeful, though his face betrays a significant amount of trepidation. Grantaire supposes he understands; they don't know one another. Enjolras is the champion for Beauxbatons, Grantaire the plain student from Durmstrang. There's already a bit of preexisting rivalry, only made worse by the tournament and their statuses one contender and one observer. Enjolras must reach some kind of conclusion, because eventually he nods and gestures up the stairs of the tower. Grantaire starts to go without much more prompting, Enjolras immediately behind him.

 

“It’ll be a more private area,” Enjolras murmurs, practically in Grantaire’s ear, as they begin the climb.

 

Grantaire is _horrified_ at how quickly his body responds to that; his heart rate shoots through the roof and his cheeks flush and he loses his footing just slightly. He prays to every deity listening that Enjolras doesn't notice, doesn't see Grantaire going absolutely insane over a casual mention that they'll be alone in a private area, because _how in Merlin's name_ is he expected to explain that? _Oh yeah, I'm fine, just torturing myself over and over again with the idea that we'll be alone together. Why yes I would like it if you slammed me into this wall and stuck your tongue down my throat, thank you—_

 

"Right," Grantaire gasps, and he rushes up the stairs and pointedly doesn't look back.

 

 

 

The top of the Astronomy Tower isn't a spot Grantaire's had a chance to visit yet while he's been visiting at Hogwarts. He doesn't take Astronomy, and outside of the work he has to do to stay on top of his Quidditch game, he doesn't do long and winding staircases. He's short of breath halfway up there, which is embarrassing since Enjolras looks like he could do this all day.

 

"How's your champion doing?" Enjolras says after a while, breaking the silence. Grantaire startles again. "Russo?"

 

Grantaire remembers too late that they're supposed to be enemies, that he's supposed to be cheering on his own champion and not some pretty boy from a foreign school. He wonders what Enjolras must be thinking.

 

"She's well, from what I understand," Grantaire responds with a shrug. "She's one of the toughest of our lot. Quick and strong, probably the smartest person in our entire school. There’s a reason she was selected, I suppose.”

 

“You don’t seem very involved in the tournament,” Enjolras notes. Grantaire glances back, and is greeted by the same apprehensive look from before.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “More-so than you’d expect,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

 

After what feels like literal decades, they’re nearing the top when Enjolras’s fingers brush his arm and Grantaire stumbles to a stop again. Enjolras points past the door leading to the classroom, a few more steps past, where a smaller and more nondescript door stands. “We don’t know each other very well, promise you’re not leading me up here to toss me off the top?” Grantaire jokes.

 

Enjolras cracks a grin. “It leads to the roof, yes, but that’s not where I was headed towards. There’s this… middle ground, I suppose. A patch of staircase that isn’t here and isn’t there. It’s where I like to study. No one bothers me there, in the middle.”

 

Grantaire can’t tear his gaze away from Enjolras’s face. “You must be so tired of all of them. Bothering you, wanting things from you. And I’m guessing they don’t stop, do they? They’re always there.”

 

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, laughing without humor. He frowns at Grantaire. “You say we don’t know each other and yet you stand here and manage to perfectly analyze what I’m feeling. You must be top of your class in Divination, too.”

 

Grantaire snorts before he can stop himself—how disappointed Enjolras is going to be as soon as he realizes how uneducated Grantaire actually is. He doesn’t reply, doesn’t know what to say that’s not alarmingly self-deprecating, so instead he climbs the last few stairs and pushes open the old door.

 

Enjolras’s secret hiding space isn’t much bigger than a broom closet, with maybe a bit of additional space for the stairs and the trapdoor leading to the roof. There’s a small window with a wide ledge, where a plant sits facing sunlight and books sit waiting to be opened. Enjolras moves the books in one fluid moment, and takes a seat on the ledge with the books now resting in his lap. Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just eases himself down onto the stair across from him.

 

He’s still holding the book, he realizes with a start, so he hands it over to Enjolras quickly.

 

Enjolras blinks down at it. “What’s this.”

 

“A book.”

 

Enjolras glares at him. It’s kind of cute.

 

“A book about werewolves?” Grantaire amends.

 

Enjolras’s eyes narrow.

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “It’s a _clue_.”

 

Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath. “Werewolves?” he snaps. “That’s the first task? Are we supposed to fight them? Kill them? That’s _barbaric_.”

 

“I know,” says Grantaire quickly. “I _know_. Enjolras, we—we agree. But look at this book. Look at the publication date, look at what’s inside. This isn’t a book about hurting werewolves. Look at it.”

 

Enjolras brushes his fingers along the spine of the book first, before it lets out a content sound and Enjolras flips it open. After a minute of reading, his face drops in shock. “Grantaire, this book was published in 1804. Back then, werewolves were barely accepted as semi-humans. How the hell did this get _published_?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “The majority of these books were destroyed not long after it’s publication. This is an extremely rare book, it’s a very specific book, which beens it’s probably a very specific clue. We haven’t figured out exactly what the task could be, what with them supposedly being ‘dangerous’ and ‘challenging’. But this is the best hint we’ve got.”

 

Enjolras flips through a few more pages, mouthing words to himself as he reads. He mumbles something under his breath.

 

“What?” Grantaire asks.

 

“Why me,” Enjolras repeats. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the page. “Why did you choose to tell me?”

 

Grantaire swallows, but Enjolras isn’t done. “I’m not the champion for your school. We’ve never said two words to each other, we share a lot of classes but that’s as far as we’ve ever gotten. I have… Grantaire, I have a lot of people in my life who follow me everywhere, people who tell me how to go about this tournament and how I should gain sponsors, or what suits I should wear to classes. People who give me things because they think I’m a pretty face in a tournament.”

 

All the breath leaves Grantaire’s chest in an instance.

 

Enjolras’s voice is low and dark, and Grantaire realizes how deadly Enjolras actually is. “Tell me, Grantaire, that you aren’t dong this because I’m a pretty face in a tournament.”

 

“No,” Grantaire blurts out, instinctive. Enjolras finally looks up at Grantaire. He repeats, “No. We’re giving the information to every champion, it’d be unfair for us to not. But you’re a champion, which means you get the information. We’re just trying to help.”

 

There’s a lot of emotions playing across Enjolras’s face in that moment. Shock, impression, maybe even a little bit of hope. Grantaire ducks his head self-consciously. “It doesn’t have to be a thing,” he finally says, under his breath, with the weight of Enjolras’s soft gaze on him. “It’s not a thing, it’s just. Helping each other out. That’s the point of the tournament anyway, right?”

 

Enjolras’s face finally cracks—a grin stretches from ear to ear. “Helping each other out,” Enjolras repeats. Grantaire really needs to stop thinking of Enjolras as adorable but he _can’t_ get the thought out of his head, especially with Enjolras beaming like this. Grantaire’s heart is swelling with fondness. “A Beauxbatons and Durmstrang alliance?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “Not just that,” he says. “The person who gave me this book, he’s Hogwarts. And a Ravenclaw boy, he wants to help out, too. And Courfeyrac, he’s Durmstrang, but he knows practically everything there is to know about werewolves, and your Musichetta is smart enough to solve this entire tournament by herself. It’s. It’s all of us, Enjolras. We all want to help.”

 

“In all the history of the Triwizard Tournament, I don’t think there’s ever been an instance where all three schools unite to help one another,” Enjolras muses. There’s this spark igniting underneath his skin, so bright Grantaire can practically see it bursting from Enjolras’s chest—he’s fire and fury and it’s all coming to life before Grantaire’s very eyes. “Fundamentally there’s so much _wrong_ with the tournament, a tournament designed to unite wizarding schools across the nation, to help wizards meet other wizards and learn new things—the focus has long since shifted past the social aspect of the tournament and has focused solely on the fact that people are competitive. To be the people who bring the tournament back to where it was intended to be…”

 

Grantaire smirks. “You sure are full of yourself, aren’t you,” he mutters. “Suppose that’s not a surprise. Anyway, you’ve got a whole army of people who want to help you get through this, and you’ve only got a few days left before the task. If we’re going to figure this out, we’ve got to do it soon.”

 

Enjolras frowns suddenly, and Grantaire’s own smirk falters slightly at the change. “When’s the full moon this month?”

 

It doesn’t even take Grantaire a second to have the answer. Watching over Courfeyrac, he has the schedule of the moon memorized—it’s been that way for years. “Last one was two weeks ago, we’ve still got thirteen days till the next.”

 

“And the task is in three days,” Enjolras continues slowly.

 

Something clicks.

 

And Grantaire grins.

 

* * *

 

 

When Grantaire brings Enjolras to meet his friends, it feels scarily similar to bringing home a boy to meet the family.

 

He’s a bundle of nerves, exposed and raw and his hands are clammy but Enjolras just seems to be vibrating with excitement. He’s rounded up his friends, who are running just a bit late according to Enjolras. All of Grantaire’s friends are waiting in an empty classroom. Courfeyrac’s Hogwarts student is there, along with a few of _his_ friends—all in all, there’s so many people and Grantaire doesn’t know all of them and he’s walking with a cute boy tomeet them.

 

A cute boy who, for some godforsaken reason, has his fingers wrapped around Grantaire’s wrist.

 

“Tell me you can feel it,” Enjolras says. Grantaire feels like he’s being _led_ , instead of him taking Enjolras. “You can, can’t you? This is change, we’re walking towards change. This is just the start, but there’s something, there’s—there’s change. This is change.”

 

Grantaire wonders if Enjolras can feel how frantically Grantaire’s heart is beating from where he holds his wrist.

 

Enjolras walks right passed the classroom, so Grantaire’s got to tug him back. Enjolras bumps into him but just holds him tighter and grins at the door.

 

Grantaire prays to Merlin that he survives this.

 

There are voices inside the classroom, voices that begin to die down when Enjolras and Grantaire enter. Durmstrang uniforms mingle with Hogwarts, Enjolras’s stark blue standing out among them all. Courfeyrac grins wolfishly at Grantaire when he catches his eye, and Grantaire blushes but doesn’t pull his wrist from Enjolras’s grip. Then the door is opening again and more students are tumbling in, and blue and brown and black uniforms become faces as names are swapped and introductions given, and they keep moving around the classroom as everyone greets Enjolras and too late Grantaire realizes Enjolras hasn’t let go of him the whole time.

 

They’re almost holding hands now, Enjolras’s grip slipping from the wrist to the palm, and Grantaire’s heart is frantically beating.

 

A room full of people look expectantly at them.

 

From Durmstrang; Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly all stare at Grantaire. From Hogwarts, Combeferre has brought his friends called Feuilly and Marius, and Bahorel and Éponine, an assortment from every house. And finally, from Beauxbatons, all staring at either Enjolras or his hand gripping Grantaire, Jehan and Musichetta and Cosette, looking pristine and pretty.

 

“So?” says Musichetta indignantly. “Let’s solve this thing.”  


And that’s all it takes for the tension to dissolve. School separations disappear as everyone begins to mingle. The book they’d been given is passed back and forth between people, both Courfeyrac and Éponine protesting any time it might be mishandled. Enjolras sits down directly with Combeferre, who’s brought his own books and papers filled with all the information he could gather about werewolves and Hogwarts.

 

Grantaire, regretfully, pulls his hand away from Enjolras after a while and doesn’t dwell on the disappointment that balloons in his chest—or on the strange look on Enjolras’s face. Instead he sits down with Joly and Bossuet, who are hanging on to every word Musichetta says. It’s nice, the collaboration, the feeling that they’re working towards something. Grantaire’s always found satisfaction in solving difficult puzzles and this is no different. He supposes he can see what Enjolras is feeling, the idea that all of this is solving a problem bigger than anything any of them are. But all he can see now is the immediate gratification, the problem being solved right away. It’s enthralling, and Grantaire could get caught up in it if he isn’t careful.

 

They find out rather out of the blue, that Éponine is a werewolf, too. It’s more of a quiet confession, her talking alone with Marius when Cosette had overhead and gasped without being able to stop herself.

 

Éponine’s face had gone pale, and Bahorel had launched to his feet and shifted towards her protectively, as all other conversations drifted to a halt. No one spoke.

 

Then, Courfeyrac stands up, pale-faced as well, and locks eyes with Éponine. His hands are shaking slightly.

 

“Me, too,” he whispers.

 

For all that Courfeyrac is proud of who he is, for all that he’s never hidden his Latino heritage or his sexuality or his personality, his status as a werewolf has been his most closely guarded secret ever since he was turned back in his second year. He hasn't shared it with anyone outside of his three friends, one professor, and his _abuela_.

 

Grantaire and Joly glance at one another. Bossuet wolf-whistles and grins at the room at large. “You know we still love you both, right? Like, that’s never going to change?”

 

Éponine scowls. “You hardly know me,” she argues, crossing her arms and ducking her head.

 

Cosette reaches out and gently places her hand on Éponine’s shoulder. “We still want to get to know you,” she tells her, and the rest of the room nods eagerly while Éponine looks up in surprise.

 

Joly reaches as far as he can with his short arms, and presses his hand against Courfeyrac’s reassuringly.

 

“So this task, it’s personal now,” Enjolras says. “We’ve got to solve it and do well because it’s personal, it involves my friends. You’re… You’re all my friends, now, yeah? And whoever wins this, we’re all working together—it’s personal.”

 

“Friends,” Marius pipes up, which is the most noise he’s made all day. He smiles at all of them. “I think we can all agree we need more friends in our life. We’d be honored to be considered your friend, Enjolras.”

 

There’s nodding all around, and Enjolras is smiling brilliantly and he looks so _beautiful_ here, surrounded by the idea that he’s about to change the world, surrounded by people who support him because he’s _him_ and not a champion, making plans and solving problems and _hopeful_.

 

He’s _beautiful_ , and Grantaire realizes too late he’s long-surpassed a crush and is falling headfirst, over his own damn feet, for this brilliant and beautiful boy.

 

“Some of us want to be _more_ than friends with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac murmurs in Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire hisses without dignity.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” whispers Grantaire harshly.

 

They’re all laughing and grinning at one another when the door opens and closes with a muted thud. Most of them pay the noise no attention, but Grantaire watches as his mysterious Hogwarts friend slinks through the room and sneaks up behind Éponine. She doesn’t startle when he leans to her ear and begins to speak, just raises an eyebrow and stifles a gasp at whatever he’s telling her. When he’s done, Éponine’s face is pale.

 

The kid glances up, catches Grantaire’s eye and grins lazily, before Apparating from the room.

 

Everyone startles at the loud crack, all gazes snapping to Éponine, who stands, still shaky and pale. “I know what the task is,” she says.

 

* * *

 

 

The day of the first task has clear skies and a waxing moon. Students from all schools gather in the Mess Hall for breakfast, all eyes on either Russo or Johnson or Enjolras. Their little ragtag gang all sit together at one of the tables, with the exception of Courfeyrac and Éponine, who both suffer from crippling migraines in the days before a full moon.

 

Enjolras has been wandering around the table, talking to all his new friends and accepting advice and well-wishes. When he finally settles and sits down, its pressed right next to Grantaire’s side.

 

All their new friends give them both a knowing look. Grantaire blushes; Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“How are you feeling, Enj?” asks Cosette from where she’s perched next to Combeferre.

 

He grins excitedly. “Russo and I, we were talking before the challenge, we’re each going to take one corner of the woods,” Enjolras starts, and then he’s off—talking about Russo and Johnson and routes and spells and potions and werewolves and Merlin knows what else. All the while, he sits by Grantaire’s side, too close, their arms pressing together, uniforms blending brown and blue, acting as though he’s belonged there this whole time.

 

Grantaire registers too late what Enjolras has said, as he’s too busy focusing on the way Enjolras’s arm is so warm.

 

“Wait, you can’t do that,” he blurts out, minutes too late.

 

Enjolras cuts off mid sentence, and stares at Grantaire in surprise. “Can’t shoot up sparks if I end up needing help?” Enjolras asks, eyebrow raised. “That’s the _one_ rule of the tournament, of course I can do that.”

 

“Not _that_ ,” Grantaire scoffs. “The—what you were talking about. With finding the pack. You can’t just walk up to them and expect them to comply, they’re wild, they’re bound to be on edge and you’ll be a human approaching, they won’t trust you.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “What to you suppose I should do instead, _stupefy_ them then make them comply while they’re frozen?”

 

He’s turned now, to face Grantaire, which means the warmth from before is gone—replaced instead by cold horror as Grantaire realizes he’s just poked a sleeping dragon. “No, I— _god_ , Enjolras, one of my best friend’s is—I’m not suggesting you _harm_ them. I’d never. But you can’t go in there expecting that they’ll trust you right away. You’re a wizard; more than that, you’re a wizard from a foreign school. You have to understand that even if you don’t want a fight, they probably will.”

 

“He’s right,” pipes up a voice from behind them, and eleven heads swivel around.

 

Éponine’s behind them, with Courfeyrac leaning against her arm and arm, both looking a little under the weather but determined nonetheless.

 

She glances around self-consciously, then helps ease Courfeyrac into the other spot by Grantaire where he and Bossuet can hold him. She takes a seat next to Cosette, who beams happily. Then she continues, in a quiet voice, “The wolves we’re dealin’ with, if they’re the ones I think they are, if. If they’re my old family…”

 

She trails off. Courfeyrac coughs and it sounds more like a growl but he reaches across the table and clasps her hands—an unlikely friendship, it gives Éponine the bit of courage she needs to continue. “They’re dangerous. They’re _very_ dangerous. These werewolves, they’re old blood, one of the longest and purest lines of werewolf blood in all of history. They’re smart, too—which means they’re either gunnin’ for a fight or waitin’ for someone to take advantage of. They’re dirty, an’ they’re smart. So you’ve got to be careful, Enjolras.”

 

“If we’re careful about how we go in, they won’t see us as a threat—” Enjolras starts.

 

“No,” says Éponine, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac at the same time.

 

“If you go in thinking like that, you’ve already let them fool you,” Cosette says gently. “We’re all rooting for you; you can’t go disappointing us just because you believe everyone’s going to be as accepting as you.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “You’re starting to sound like him,” he mutters, nodding towards Grantaire.

 

Grantaire grins wickedly.

 

“Yeah, ‘cept she don’t fancy him,” Courfeyrac mutters.

 

Grantaire elbows him, horrified.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Grantaire whispers.

 

“Everyone knows,” murmurs Cosette back. She winks conspiringly and Grantaire resolves right then and there to dissolve into a puddle.

 

The majority of the group starts giggling, which basically just proves that everyone _does_ know, except Enjolras who looks on at all of them with a slightly confused look on his face and asks aloud why they’re all laughing.

 

Courfeyrac coughs again and nudges Grantaire, saying, “Dunno, do you, ‘Taire?”

 

Grantaire says, “I hate you all.”

 

Enjolras smiles at him.

 

Grantaire thinks, _except for you_.

 

And its their last moment of lightness before the entire Mess Hall is silenced as the Headmasters of all three schools stand at the podium.

 

Enjolras tenses next to him. “It’s time,” he murmurs, and he sounds more afraid in that moment than he’s sounded this entire time.

 

Grantaire wants to reach out, wants to grab his hand and squeeze it and never let go, but he can’t—he doesn’t. Enjolras has got a tournament to win and Grantaire’s just a spectator.

 

Enjolras, Russo, and Johnson all stand and eyes flicker between the three of them and the three Headmasters. Their group, a random eclectic selection of students from all schools, gets more than a few odd looks.

 

“Champions,” says the Hogwarts Headmaster. “The time has come for you to part from your peers and prepare yourself for the first Task. Professor Vinewall will lead you to where you need to be, and we as your audience shall join you when the time is appropriate.”

 

At the end of the Mess Hall stands Professor Vinewall, a rather tall women with strange eyes and a peculiar smile. She gestures for the champions to follow then turns on her heel and exits. Russo follows without much more prompting, chin held high and with dignity in her step. Johnson grins from ear to ear as she leaves, accepting hugs and claps of hands on her back and other well-wishes and cheers as she walks through her friends to the door.

 

Enjolras takes the longest. He looks back on all his new friends and smiles nervously. He rests his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, briefly. “Courf, ‘Ponine—this is for you,” he whispers. Then louder, to all of them, “I’ll see you all on the other side.”

 

“Long live the Republic!” shouts Grantaire, and more giggles follow.

 

“For patria!” cries Jehan. Enjolras rolls his eyes but he blows them all a kiss before he goes, and people cheer for him as he passes by. Grantaire’s heart is full with something he can’t quite identify—something that lingered in the way Enjolras blew the kiss, towards all of them, towards him.

 

Something warm.

 

He smiles.

 

“Don’t get yourself killed, you poor, pretty bastard,” Grantaire says under his breath.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t get himself killed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The challenge is actually super boring to watch, since the majority of it occurs in the Forbidden Forest and can’t be documented or projected. The spectators cheer on the champions as they enter; Courfeyrac bravely holds Grantaire’s hand and doesn’t complain when his fingers get nearly broken as Enjolras enters.

 

Enjolras turns right before he goes in, locates Grantaire and the rest of their friends, and the corner of his mouth lifts as Grantaire looks desperately on.

 

“Ow,” Courfeyrac mutters, flexing his fingers slightly.

 

Alright—so he doesn’t complain _much_.

 

That’s all they get for the next hour, a half smile and one last glance at his determined face.

 

Then, an hour later, Russo emerges from the edge of the Forbidden Forest with a scratch on her face and a flask and wildflowers in her hands. The crowd watches with bated breath until she smiles, and then madness erupts.

 

Grantaire stands immediately, looks past her as far as he can into the forest, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

 

Johnson stumbles out six minutes later, holding a smaller bouquet of wildflowers, and cheers erupt again. Headmasters clap their students on the back and schools chant out of respect for their champions, and Enjolras doesn’t come out.

 

He doesn’t come out.

 

Russo will have a scar on her face for the rest of her life, and Johnson’s limping though she keeps insisting she’s fine, and Enjolras is still somewhere in there and people are worried and his friends are waiting but Grantaire, Grantaire’s heart is hammering painfully in his chest the longer it goes on.

 

“Stupid selfish pretty righteous son of a bitch,” Grantaire’s muttering under his breath. “Don’t do this, you asshole, don’t get me all hot and bothered then die in there, I’ll never fucking forgive you—”

 

They’re new, all of them, to the friendship and to the group and everyone’s worried but the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students can’t help but celebrate with their peers and Cosette’s hand replaces Courfeyrac’s after a while so she can wait and worry with Grantaire, and time is going fast but not going anywhere at all and—

 

Grantaire’s just stuck at the center of it all.

 

He’s drowning, honestly, drowning in his own doubts and worries and his friends are teasing them because they’re _new._ They’re new, they barely know each other.

 

Then, out of the darkness, a light starts to flicker, and a strangled sob catches in Grantaire’s throat.

 

The light grows steadily, steadily, until finally Enjolras limps out of the woods. He’s bloody but he’s grinning from ear to ear, and in one hand there’s this single flower, but in the other hand there’s—

 

Éponine’s scream rings out.

 

“ _Gavroche_!”

 

She bursts from the stands, shoves people out of her way and practically falls out in her haste, and some people try to stop her but most decide to let her through. Because, at Enjolras’s other hand, is a little boy no more than eleven, reaching for her before she even reaches him.

 

“Gavroche!” she gasps desperately, over and over. “Gavroche, _Gav_.”

 

Enjolras lets go of him right as Éponine reaches them, and she scoops the young boy up into her arms and cries as his thin arms wrap around her neck.

  
Around them, the crowd begins to whisper in speculation.

 

Enjolras holds up his single red wildflower.

 

His friends begin to cheer. Whoops and hollers, and crying and laughing and then everyone’s joining in, cheering for Enjolras and the champions and for the successes they don’t quite understand. Russo claps Enjolras on the back, Johnson kisses his cheek, and Enjolras beams at the masses and waves to his friends.

 

Grantaire takes breath after breath as the heavy knot in his chest begins to dissipate.

 

* * *

 

 

The task was as follows.

 

In the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, there were two known wolf packs residing. With permission from the Headmaster, they made a sanctuary and were offered the school’s services whenever they so desired. For the most part, the werewolves kept to themselves in the woods. There had been speculation for years now, that the two pacts were working on an elixir to lessen the harmful effects of turned during full moons and to give the werewolf brain the human conscious back while turned. The champions’ tasks were to locate the packs, earn their trust, and bring back the secret ingredient to complete the elixir. Russo, being the first to locate a pack, received the largest bouquet of wildflowers to brew her potion with. She earned their trust by outwitting a young werewolf in a sparring match. Johnson, who located the second pack, limped into their sanctuary and immediately won the affections of a baby wolf who began tending to her wounds, and was thus granted the second bouquet.

 

Enjolras recounts a different tale.

 

The plan was that they’d locate the packs together then compete against each other to earn the favor of the alpha. The plan deteriorated upon entry, when it became clear they had to locate _both_ pacts, and decided to separate. Russo and Johnson went the traditional way.

  
But Enjolras followed the wrong signs.

 

Éponine was right, in the end, about her old family also seeking sanction in the woods. Aware of the challenge, they lured Enjolras to their home and tried to con him into staying. He realized too that this pack wasn’t one the tournament was aware of when the alpha incorrectly identified him as the champion from Durmstrang—due to the fact he was wearing a Durmstrang fur scarf that hid his own school logo. As he planned his escape, he was ambushed.

 

Enjolras claims he doesn’t remember much about the fight, but his tight eyes tell another story altogether.

 

Ultimately he reveals that little Gavroche came to his rescue, standing in between him and his attacker.

 

“I knew he didn’t belong there,” Enjolras tells them, especially Éponine, who hasn’t stopped holding her brother ever since they’ve been reunited. “He was young and he was courageous, so I grabbed him and I started to ran.”

 

“Made ‘im stop so I could grab ‘im a flower,” says Gavroche proudly. “Jus’ cause I ain’t a student here don’t mean I don’t know ‘bout the tournament. Knew he needed it to win. Felt bad I only grabbed ‘im the one.”

 

“You did brilliantly,” Enjolras reassures him.

 

“You’re safe now,” Éponine murmurs, still crying.

 

Grantaire grips Enjolras’s arm for practically the entire night.

 

* * *

 

 

They award Enjolras with second place, even though he came out of the Forest last. They commend him for his bravery in rescuing a young boy, and begin efforts to evacuate the Thénardier pack from the Forbidden Forest for good.

 

Gavroche is sorted into Gryffindor, and he begins his education at Hogwarts right away.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, and Grantaire still hasn’t quite shaken off the feelings that struck him numb at the First Task.

 

It’s late, after dinner, and most everyone is beginning to retreat to their chambers. The curfew is more flexible now, to allow for socializing between schools, but old rules run deep and many people find themselves slipping away to bed out of habit. Grantaire finds himself wandering the halls he’s starting to familiarize, caught up in his own thoughts.

 

He feels—weird. He feels off. It’s something he’s felt before, though never to this degree, and he can’t shake it and it bothers him. It makes him want to curl up in bed and sleep for ten consecutive days, and it makes him want to be wildly impulsive.

 

He realizes a bit too late that he’s been walking towards the Astronomy Tower. The bust at the base of the stairs snorts when they see him. “Welcome back, crazy one,” they greet. Grantaire salutes them. “Obviously you haven’t scared off that champion of yours.”

 

“He’s not mine,” corrects Grantaire immediately, but then he falters. “What do you mean?”

 

The bust raises an eyebrow. “He’s come here practically every night, stays up there until ungodly hours, and makes an awful lot of noise on his way back down.” The bust frowns angrily. “It’s kind of a nuisance, honestly. About time you’ve come to collect him.”

 

“He’s up there?” Grantaire asks.

 

“For Merlin’s sake—you wizards are all so daft!” the bust scolds. “Go! Go up there, now; spare us all the misery. You know, we statues and paintings have a betting pool going. You two are the most exciting thing to happen to this school since the Evans scandal years ago. My gods, how we gossiped about that!”

 

Grantaire ignores whatever rant the bust starts to go off on, instead hurrying up the stairs as best he can. When he reaches the top, Enjolras’s favorite place, he hesitates outside the door.

 

He hasn’t shaken that feeling ever since the challenge, and he’s been avoiding spending time alone with Enjolras for that reason. But he needs this, he thinks, and they both do, so he knocks on the door before entering.

 

Enjolras is ethereal in the moonlight.

 

He’s standing at his window, watering the plant he’s placed there, and basking in the light of the night sky. He doesn’t startle when Grantaire enters, only smiles slightly and places his teacup down.

 

“You know you’re a wizard, right?” Grantaire states. “You can water those things with your magic instead of out of a cup. And why are you using a teacup? God, we knew you were pretentious but this is a whole new level.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who claims to be so stellar at Herbology,” he replies. “You should know. This plant flourishes in moonlight, it must be watered when the moon is high and the night clear, with water directly from Agatha’s Fountain.”

 

“Agatha’s Fountain is in Paris,” Grantaire notes.

 

Enjolras finally turns around. He gestures to the teacup. “This cup is enchanted to pull water from the fountain as needed. It’s made from a piece of marble that came from a broken part of the statue.”

 

“I was right, you _are_ pretentious.”

 

“You seem to enjoy it.”

 

Grantaire’s breath catches in his throat.

 

Enjolras peers curiously at him. “I’m not wrong, am I?” he asks. He shifts his weight uneasily; it’s dawned on Grantaire in the past few weeks of getting to know Enjolras that he’s never as composed as he seems to be. Fire never truly is—as much as it can appear contained, it’s dangerous and passionate and spreads without much prompting or warning. Enjolras is the same way. He wears his emotions on his sleeve.

  
Like right now; Grantaire picks up on his nervousness, the anticipation, the wonder. Enjolras’s natural curiosity, all directed in that one question, all trying to dissect Grantaire’s mind.

 

“No,” he says finally. “You’re not wrong.”

 

They stand there like that for another beat or two, or maybe for an hour. Time seems to slow around Grantaire again. The moonlight spreads around them, engulfs them, charges the air with something inexplicable but undeniably present.

 

They’re wizards, sure, but it’s the most _magical_ Grantaire’s ever felt in his entire life.

 

Enjolras smiles.

 

“Good,” he whispers, then he leans forward just so and his lips brush against Grantaire’s cheek. “I thought so.”

 

It’s a start. Or maybe it’s an end, or maybe it’s the middle of something much bigger than both of them, Grantaire doesn’t know. But it’s _something_ and it’s a promise of _more_ and Grantaire swears his heart may actually beat out of his chest in this picturesque scene but he doesn’t matter because—well.

 

Grantaire’s no good at Divination. He’s awful at it.

 

But the future’s _surrounding_ them here, and it’s promising to be enchanting.

**Author's Note:**

> ??? To be continued? Maybe. I dunno. Guess we'll see!
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
>  
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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